


Dear Morpheus

by FinelyDressedSpacemen



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Minor Angst, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29731131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinelyDressedSpacemen/pseuds/FinelyDressedSpacemen
Summary: “It’s some kind of advice column,” she explains, intrigued. “Look at this.” She turns the computer his way, and he settles down on the barstool beside her.“Dear Morpheus,” Arthur reads. “What the hell is this?”
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 62





	Dear Morpheus

**Author's Note:**

> Soundtrack (or, *Highly* Encouraged Audio Mood Board):
> 
> Playing With The Boys- Kenny Loggins  
> Paddling Out— Miike Snow  
> Stunnin’- Curtis Waters

“Hey have you seen this?” Ariadne asks, around a mug of hot chocolate. It’s late, and it’s cold in the warehouse. The air smells of salt and cold fish from the docks outside. She’s bundled up in a thick red sweater, clearly meant for comfort instead of attractiveness.

“What is it?” Arthur asks, coming beside her to look at her computer screen. 

“It’s some kind of advice column,” she explains, intrigued. “Look at this.” She turns the computer his way, and he settles down on the barstool beside her.

“Dear Morpheus,” Arthur reads. “What the hell is this?”

^~*~^

**Dear Morpheus,**

**I’ve made a terrible mistake. I thought it was safe to tell my boyfriend about my work in dreamshare, but it turns out he was an undercover Interpol officer the whole time. I think my whole team is compromised. I’m with a bunch of rookies, so at least I don’t have to worry about somebody like Phipps or Arthur putting a hit on me, but still. It’s not like I did it on purpose, and if word gets out I got my team killed, I’ll never work again. What do I do?**

**Please help!**

**Unlucky in Love**

^~*~^

"What the fuck is this shit?” Arthur asks, bewildered. “How did this garbage get on my message board?" Arthur hurriedly presses a few keys, opening the source code of his webpage. "Do you know how deep on the dark web I keep this?" Ariadne goggles up at him. "Whoever posted this is in serious shit."

"You didn't know about this?" Ariadne asks, alarmed.

"No I didn't fucking know about this!" Arthur yells. "What the fuck!” Arthur set the dreamshare forums up years ago, on a whim. They were heavily vetted, and carefully moderated. Ninety percent of jobs start on the forums, these days. A ban is tantamount to being blacklisted in the dream sharing community. 

“It’s on your forum!” Ariadne says. “You’ve got it set up to allow new threads!”

“ _No, I do not,_ ” Arthur growls. “I’m the only one who can make new threads. There are six threads.” He counts on his fingers. “Point Men, Extractors, Architects, Chemists, Forgers, and Rumors. That’s it. This is a professional, work-related bulletin board.”

“Well call HR, because there’s a seventh thread now, and it’s too sexy for work.” Arthur curses at the Dear Morpheus thread title, and goes to log in. “Wait, don’t delete it!” Ariadne whines, pulling the computer back to her. “I mean, maybe it's not a huge deal," she says. "The answer is helpful. I could've really used something like this at my first job. Dear Morpheus, my extractor is obsessed with the ghost of his late wife. I think he might drive a train into the dream and murder all of us. I don't know if I should tell the others, or keep this to myself. What should I do?"

“That shouldn’t have been nearly as difficult of a decision for you to make as it was," Arthur replies with a frown. “What lesson did we learn?”

“Always tell your point man," Ariadne sighs, abashed.

“That's right," Arthur says, proudly. "Dreamshare 101."

"I didn't _get_ Dreamshare 101," Ariadne grumbles. "My point man let my extractor throw me completely unprepared into a war zone where I nearly got trapped in limbo."

“Your point man knows the best teacher is experience,” Eames chirps from the doorway. He’s dressed in charcoal, and while he looks exhausted, Arthur still thinks he looks good enough to eat.

“Back already?” Arthur asks over his shoulder. 

“He’s in for the night,” Eames replies, pulling his gloves off. He drops his scarf on his desk, but leaves his coat on. It’s too cold in the warehouse. “It’s too cold in this warehouse,” he says.

“Tough luck. Wear a coat.”

Eames gestures at his torso, baffled.

“Arthur’s ruining the fun,” Ariadne pouts.

“That’s what he does, love,” Eames replies. “Part of his job description.”

Arthur drags his hands across his face and stands. “It’s too late for this, and you’re both too annoying.” He pulls his topcoat off his desk chair. “I think it’s time to call it a night.” 

“Were you waiting up for me, darling?” Eames purrs.

“You just have convenient timing,” Arthur replies, his face stony. “Get some sleep, both of you.”

^~*~^

The next morning, Eames is in entirely too good of a mood for the early hour. “Dear Gossip Girl,” Eames jokes, “I’m in love with my forger, and I don’t know what to do about it.” He sets a muffin down at Ariadne’s desk, and passes Arthur a croissant with a wink.

“You laugh,” Ariadne replies, “but two days ago, somebody wrote that they were in love with a _forge_ belonging to their forger. Real tragic stuff.”

“Arthur, why are you letting this trash sit on your server?” Eames asks, straddling a desk chair backwards.

“Primarily because it amuses Ariadne,” he replies, a smile quirking his lips. Eames frowns.

“You know who it is though, don’t you?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Of course I do. What do you take me for?” He rocks back in his desk chair and fiddles with his pen.

“Well yesterday you didn’t even know this existed,” Ariadne grumbles.

“No more from you, missy. Talk like that again and the thread gets it.” Ariadne scoffs, crossing her arms. She shuts her mouth. “That’s more like it.”

“Hey, there’s a new post,” Eames says, smirking at his phone.

“Can we focus on the job we’re being paid for?” Arthur barks.

“In a minute, darling, hold your horses!” He dismounts his chair and leans over Arthur’s shoulders to get at his laptop. Ariadne is scrambling at her computer, her stool skittering across the concrete floor beneath her. Arthur slaps at Eames’ arms.

“Get your giant hands away from my keyboard, Mr. Eames. I can navigate myself.”

“I don’t have giant hands,” Eames pouts.

^~*~^

**Dear Dreamers—**

**It’s late where I am, but I can’t sleep. Shocking, I’m sure. Do you ever stay up late, staring at a crack in your hotel ceiling, wondering if he’s out there thinking about you the way you’re thinking about him? Me, I constantly worry about him. He goes out on research trips, trailing guys way more dangerous than he is at all hours of the night. He’s lucky, but nobody’s luck lasts forever. So how do you deal with it?**

**I asked some friends what they do:**

**_“Me? I put a bug in his cell phone. Every time he burns one, I put a new one in.”_ **

**_“I tail her too, of course.”_ **

**_“I do absolutely nothing. If he’s dumb enough to get himself shot, he deserves what’s coming to him.”_ **

**I don’t really like any of those suggestions, dreamers. Here are mine:**

**Let your point man worry about this. This is his job. If you don’t let him do it, what’s he cutting himself in for?  
Never tell him you’re worried. You’ll only make him feel bad. And really, like I’ve said before, you shouldn’t be getting involved with guys in dreamshare. It will only end badly. If he was interested, he’d say something. He’s not, so watch from a far, and let your point man deal with it.**

**Or, yeah, maybe bug his phone.**

**Rest easy, out there—**

**Morpheus**

^~*~^

“So we know it’s a woman,” Eames hums. Ariadne quirks her head.

“We don’t know that,” she says. “It could be a man.”

“Ariadne, I know all the gay men in dreamshare, and none of them would write that. It’s definitely a woman.”

Two pairs of eyes look expectantly at Arthur. “I will neither confirm nor deny,” he says. 

“Tell us where she posted from, at least?” Ariadne pleads, balling her sweater sleeves around her hands.

“Helsinki,” Arthur replies. 

Eames frowns at his phone. “No jobs in Helsinki that I’ve heard about.”

“Are you still not using the VPN I set up for you?” Arthur asks, sitting up.

“Fuck,” Eames sighs.

^~*~^

The mark’s secretary is two inches taller than the average American woman, before the heels. Her blonde hair is thick, and her waist is thin. No wonder his wife is worried. She’s shopping with her girlfriends, and Arthur is being a (professional) creeper. The GoPro in his hoodie pocket records her rifling through a clothes rack, red lips pouting.

Beside him, Eames is scrolling through his phone.

“Hey man, why I am I doing your job?” Arthur asks out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes drifting over to mens’ wear.

“Because you’re bored,” Eames says. “Because the bulk of my part is watching that video you’re taking over and over until I figure out what angle her breasts bounce at when she laughs.” Arthur looks at him, a little grossed out. “Because Ariadne bet me fifty dollars I couldn’t get you to wear a hoodie, and I promised you half.”

“This mall isn’t nice enough for any of my suits,” Arthur grumbles. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“There’s another post.” Arthur looks over Eames’ shoulder.

^~*~^

**Dear Morpheus—**

**I’m at a loss. I’ve been building for years, and I’ve got a really good reputation. I’m never going to be on the Rumors board. I’m reliable, and I’m detail-oriented. But I’m so fucking tired of being a glorified interior designer that I could scream. I’ve been trying to learn to forge, and I’m getting pretty good. How do I let other teams know I want to branch out? Is there etiquette for that?**

**Sincerely,**

**The Dude Playing the Dude Disguised As Another Dude**

**—  
Dear Dude:**

**Play to your strengths. If you can forge —and I mean _really forge,_ you should do it. That’s a rare talent. I think there are only like, six people total on the Forger thread. Make sure it’s what you really want to do though, because you’ll have serious competition. Mei Ling is good. So is Shannon. Eames, though— I’ve seen Eames’ work, and he’s indistinguishable from the real thing. I read over on the Rumors board that a mark left his wife because she wasn’t as pretty as he remembered her being, but really he was thinking of Eames. **

**In all seriousness, architect burnout is a real thing. Have you considered becoming an actual interior designer?**

**Best of luck—**

**Morpheus**

^~*~^

“Holy shit,” Eames hums. “Hey,” he frowns. “Where’s the secretary?”

“Fuck.”

^~*~^

“We have a clue,” Eames says triumphantly a they enter the warehouse. “I’ve met Morpheus.”

“Bigger deal,” Ariadne replies, her hands on her head. “Architect burnout is a real thing. Have you heard about this?”

Arthur slings his messenger bag onto the desk and smirks. “Of course I have. Haven’t you?”

“Can we focus, please?” Eames asks. He points at Ariadne. “You should be as excited as I am right now.” He looks at Arthur. “And I don’t believe you actually know who Morpheus is.”

“Oh, I know who he is,” Arthur says, eyes glinting.

“He! I told you it could be a gay man!” Ariadne shrieks.

“Good lord,” Eames breathes. “There’s only maybe— five possibilities.”

“If you sit down and work for an hour, I might give you a hint,” Arthur teases with a wink over his shoulder.

Eames tosses his jacket down in a huff. “Darling you can’t flirt like that. It’s not decent. You know what it does to me when you wink.”

“Get to work, Mr. Eames."

^~*~^

**Dreamers, sometimes I think none of it’s worth it.**

**I’ve got a decent background of legitimate education and work. I could go straight. Hell, most of us could. I could do the three bedroom, two and a half bath, white picket fence life. Sure, it would be boring. But sometimes I think I need to get away from all of it. People leave dreamshare all the time. Look at Dom Cobb. Nobody’s heard from that lunatic in a year now.**

**Maybe we’re all lunatics. Maybe that’s part of the gig.**

**I asked some friends if they’d ever go straight:**

**_“Hell no. The money’s too good.”_ **

**_“I consider myself to be legal curious. I’ll work for anyone with a pulse, and a big enough checkbook.”_ **

**_“I should call my mother more often.”_ **

**I can’t leave, I guess. What I want isn’t out there anyway.**

**Maybe there isn’t anything more than this. Maybe this has to be enough. If it isn’t enough for you either, hang in there, dreamer. I guess we’re in this together.**

**Rest easy,**

**Morpheus**

^~*~^

It’s been an hour since Ariadne walked away from her drafting table. The blueprints are perfect by now, Arthur knows. Still, every minute or so he hears a little frustrated sigh from her corner of the workspace.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, rolling his eyes.

“He’s sad,” Ariadne says with a frown. “Why is he sad?”

“Why is who sad, love?” Eames asks, pulling an earbud out of one ear. 

“Morpheus,” she pouts.

“People get sad sometimes,” Arthur says. He’s got the PASIV hooked up to his laptop, diagnostics running. He fiddles with a dial. “Life is sad.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Eames says. “This Morpheus bloke should just ask his mate out already.”

“It doesn’t always work like that,” Arthur says. Eames watches the lines of Arthur’s pleats as he stands to bend farther over the PASIV.

“No,” he sighs. “Sometimes it doesn’t.”

^~*~^

There’s nothing weird about the job. It goes off fairly easily, with the mark handled quickly while under for carpal tunnel surgery. It’s just an hour of dream time, five minutes in the real world. Eames is perfect, as always. Arthur’s able to break the safe in half the time allotted. Ariadne keeps watch with the orthopedic surgeon, and Eames catches Arthur’s eye as they wake. He smiles. Arthur wants to sit there on the hospital floor and stare for hours. Instead, he hurriedly unhooks himself and the mark, and packs the PASIV.

“Fancy a drink after this?” Eames asks. 

“Then straight back to your hotel,” Arthur wants to say. 

“Eames, it’s 11:00AM,” he says instead. 

“Any time is a good time to celebrate the end of a job well done,” Eames says. 

Ah, there it is. Coworkers, handshakes and high fives. Arthur breaths are suddenly shallow. The white surgical suite is too bright. He needs to leave. 

“Well, I’ll go with you,” Ariadne shrugs, as they walk towards the door. 

“Your shares will be wired to you within seventy two hours,” Arthur says, suddenly clipped.

“You alright there, darling?” Eames asks, placing a concerned hand on Arthur’s arm. 

Arthur tenses. “I’m fine. It’s time to split up. If you’re going out, at least get out of town first.” He leads them out of the surgical wing and immediately walks away from them at the lobby. Their frowns follow him onto the street. 

On the subway, Arthur feels overwhelmed, at once too hot and too cold. He takes his phone out and hurriedly types. He regrets it immediately, but the message is already bouncing between cities. The missive is on a schedule, and it won’t show up where it can be intercepted and deleted for hours. 

Arthur is certain he can stop it before it’s seen. He feels a wave of calm that carries him clear to JFK.

^~*~^

When the post hits, it’s 2:00am and he can’t sleep. “Holy shit,” Eames whispers. “Holy fuck.”

^~*~^

**Dear Morpheus,**

**I’m in love with my forger, and I don’t know what to do about it.**

**Sincerely,**

**Gossip Girl**

\----

**Dear Gossip Girl—**

**If you’re going to be sad, you might as well be sad in Paris.**

**Morpheus  
**

^~*~^

It’s 5:00am, and he’s in the airport, with the world’s most expensive economy ticket to France. British Airways is practically scalping at this point. It’s way, way too early for this shit, and Arthur had better like scruff and old jeans. Eames rubs an exhausted hand against the back of his neck, and sets his duffle down on a threadbare chair outside his gate. This may not be the brightest idea he’s ever had. He may be misreading everything. Maybe Arthur will open his door (which Eames really shouldn’t even know about, but Arthur is better at finding tracks than hiding them) wearing a badge that says, “hello, my name is Morpheus. I love you, you stupid fuck.” Maybe he’ll kick Eames in the balls if he tries to kiss him.

He’s not worried this will be the end of their working relationship. Despite popular belief, Arthur is not an overly loyal person. He will follow and protect people he believes are exceptionally competent, because competence is currency to him. Dom Cobb was a special circumstance, born largely out of Arthur’s misplaced guilt over his own role in Mal’s death (namely: purchasing the somnacin that allowed them to drop into limbo in the first place, and distancing himself when their weirdness became more than he was willing to handle). Because Arthur values competence, he won’t shy away from jobs with Eames. They’ll get through the initial awkwardness, and they’ll sally on. 

He is, however, worried he might be putting a lot of money and effort into breaking his own heart. Eames had dismissed all thoughts of making a move on Arthur years ago. It had honestly never occurred to him that acting on them even could be an option. It wasn’t that he thought Arthur was straight, so much has he never thought Arthur engaged in any romantic behavior at all. Based on Morpheus’s rules for dating in dreamshare (specifically: don’t), Eames is probably still right about that. 

If Arthur wanted to try, Eames would gladly volunteer himself as tribute. 

“Now boarding priority members for Flight 8461 to Paris at Gate B38.” Eames throws his duffle over his shoulder and steps towards the future.

^~*~^

“Do you know what time it is?” Arthur asks as he opens the door, stashing his gun in his waistband.

“Since when do you like men?” Eames asks, hurriedly. He drops his bag at Arthur’s feet.

“Since always,” Arthur says, bleary-eyed.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Eames asks, a little desperately.

“Are you aware that we work in dreamshare?” Arthur asks.

“I just flew nine hours to get to you. Stop being condescending and talk to me,” Eames barks.

“Anything like this just makes our lives even more dangerous,” Arthur argues.

“I don’t care,” Eames says. His eyes are wild. He drags a hand through his plane-mussed hair.

“Maybe this wouldn’t mean anything to you, but if I start something, it’ll be something serious, Eames.”

“I don’t care,” he says again, emphatically. “I _want_ serious with you. I want _everything_ with you. I have since day one. You are spectacular, darling. I fell in love with you the very first time you yelled at me.” He moves to carefully slide his arms around Arthur.

“If we start this, I may never let it end,” Arthur warns. HIs chest is heaving beneath his t-shirt.

“I could do forever, if it’s with you.”

“Shut up and kiss me, Mr. Eames.”

He does. He pulls Arthur flush against him, the point man’s hands fisting in the back of Eames’ jacket. Eames slides a knee between Arthur’s and nips at his bottom lip before moving to his jaw.

“Seriously your hands are huge,” Arthur moans against Eames’ throat.

“Dear Morpheus,” Eames purrs into Arthur’s ear, his hand slipping slowly down his back. “I’ve got a thing for my point man’s ass and I don’t know how to tell him. Sincerely, Proportionately Sized Hands.” 

“Fuck,” Arthur whines, and kisses him soundly.

**Author's Note:**

> Come help me figure out how to [Tumblr](https://finelydressedspacemen.tumblr.com)


End file.
